The Angel and the Consulting Detective
by Leaving-My-Mark
Summary: While at the scene of a disappearance suspected to be a kidnapping, John notices a strange statue. Although he mentions it to Sherlock, the detective remains skeptical until a certain friend of the Doctor's comes along to enlighten him and he learns for himself that there are much more improbable things than gigantic hounds. If you want more, leave a review!
1. Chapter 1

**So this is a Wholock fanfic, the first I've ever written. I originally wrote a shorter version of this in ask form (13 parts) for johnlocked-in-the-spooky-tardis. I liked writing it so much and thought it was good enough that I would extend it a bit and post it here in one post. I hope you all enjoy!**

**Characters: John, Sherlock, River, the Doctor, Amy, and Rory.**

**Rated: BOA for Beware of Angels**

**Summary: John and Sherlock return to Baker Street in a heated argument about something John saw at the scene of a disappearance. Stubborn Sherlock refuses to believe something beyond his expertise is going on, and a certain friend of the Doctor's comes along to offer the pair some help.**

**Takes place between Hounds of Baskerville and Reichenbach Fall in the Sherlock timeline and as for the Doctor Who timeline, it doesn't really matter although I suppose it'd be some time after The Wedding of River Song.**

**Depending on the response I get from this, I may or may not write more. I have more in my head to write if you guys want it, but only if I get a good enough response. So leave a review if you like it!  
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**Enjoy!**

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Sherlock Holmes rolled his eyes as he marched into the flat. "I swear I saw it move, Sherlock," John Watson insisted as he followed the detective inside. "It went from standing on that pillar beside the door of the church to the bottom of the steps. I know it did."

"Impossible," Sherlock said, waving away the notion immediately. You're probably just still suffering the side-effects of your hangover from the trip to the pub with your friend last night."

"I'm not hung over! I know what I saw!" John cried defensively.

"Oh, so I suppose the statue just crossed the street, broke into the house, and kidnapped him?" the detective answered sarcastically.

When he put it that way, John knew it sounded odd, but he was sure of it. "Yes, I suppose I am." Sherlock scoffed and moved to sit in his usual chair. "Just because it sounds ridiculous doesn't mean it can't have happened. You once said that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth," John shot back.

"Yes, but the statue of an angel, John?" Sherlock made another derisive noise.

"And what else could it be?" John asked, but never got his answer from the doubtful detective, for at that moment the doorbell downstairs rang. "Boys, you've-" Mrs. Hudson began to call as usual, but the guest at the door cut her off. "Sorry, 'scuse me, no time to waste," a woman's voice said before they heard the sound of footsteps hurrying up the stairs.

John looked to Sherlock, who merely shrugged. A moment later, a confident, smirking blonde-haired woman entered the flat. "Hello, dears. Word has it that you've got a rather curious, unsolved case on your hands."

John looked from the woman to Sherlock, who looked a tad perturbed. "Not unsolved but rather currently in progress. I don't have unsolved cases," Sherlock answered, to which John objectively cut in. "That's not true, there was the one with the airplane passenger-" he started to say, but Sherlock's glare shut him up immediately.

"So, want some help?" the curly-haired blonde asked.

"Perhaps we could-" John began, but Sherlock once again cut him off. "No, I have no need of your assistance. John and I have this perfectly under control and are well on our way to solving it, actually."

"No we're not-"

"John," Sherlock said warningly.

"Er, sorry. What's your name, by the way? I don't believe you mentioned it," John said, curious as to who this woman was.

"Oh, my apologies. River Song, archaeologist," River said, holding out a hand for John to shake. Just as their hands met, however, the sound of Sherlock's chuckle caused them to pause and turn to look at him.

"What's so funny?" John asked.

"He thinks archaeology is a useless branch of science and is wondering how on earth an archaeologist is going to assist in a kidnapping case, that's what he thinks is funny," River answered, to which Sherlock raised an intrigued eyebrow and John looked both fascinated and shocked. "Thing is, though, it's not a kidnapping. It's not that simple, I'm afraid," she told Sherlock.

"Oh?" the detective questioned, prompting River to continue if only to humor her. She probably wouldn't go away if he didn't allow her to go on.

"No, it's not," River said, sounding a tad annoyed that he didn't seem to be taking this whole thing seriously. He was more difficult to deal with already than the Doctor. "That angel John saw-"

"How did you-How do you know our-"

"How did I know you saw the angel? How do I know your names?" River finished for him. "I've been in London for a bit and learned about the case. Knowing something wasn't right, I went to investigate, just like you," she explained, looking pointedly at Sherlock. "I spotted you two and followed you back from the scene of the crime." Sherlock looked a bit impressed, just as he always did when he met another quick-thinking, resourceful mind, while John still had a surprised expression plastered across his features. "Anyways, that angel statue John saw was called a Weeping Angel and is quite dangerous."

"Dangerous?" John repeated, looking confused and a tad scared.

"How can a stone angel be dangerous?" Sherlock asked skeptically.

"The Weeping Angels are the oldest creatures on the planet. When you look at them, they can't move. But once you turn your head or even blink..."

"Do they...kill people?" John asked hesitantly.

"No, much worse," River answered. "They send you back in time and let you live to death."

"My God…" John murmured, eyes wide.

"Not possible," Sherlock refuted instantly, and John and River snapped their heads to look at him once more.

"Yes it is. It absolutely is possible, I've seen it," River answered, sounding even more perturbed by Sherlock's skepticism. Really, what would it take to convince this stubborn detective?

"So I really did see it move," John asked in an attempt to avert the argument that was about to unfold between the two.

"Yes, you did. I noticed it changed position, too," River replied.

"I think we should let her help us out, Sherlock. She seems to know what she's doing," John insisted once more, trying to get Sherlock to see reason.

"Absolutely not."

"Don't tell me you still don't believe either of us!" John exclaimed tiredly, to which Sherlock simply stared back at him. John rolled his eyes and sighed. "You're ridiculous."

"Indeed he is. I suppose if you don't believe what we tell you, then we'll just have to prove it to you; let you see for yourself," River insisted.

"We will?" John asked.

"Yes. Come on, then," she said, grabbing Sherlock's wrist and yanking him to his feet. Twenty minutes later they found themselves back at the crime scene.

Immediately John and River focused their attention to the church on the other side of the street where the angel had been earlier. "Where is it?" John asked. "It's moved," River answered as she began to look around. "There," John pointed toward the back of the missing man's house. "Good," River said approvingly. "Now take your eyes off it."

"What?" the army doctor cried incredulously, giving her an 'are you serious?' look. "But you said that they're-"

"Extremely dangerous. Yes, I know. Just do it, just for the briefest of moments. You, too, deduction boy." Sherlock scowled at the nickname but nonetheless looked away. Finally, River allowed herself to blink and when her eyes opened, the angel had moved three feet closer.

"Impossible," Sherlock breathed. "How is that possible?"

"There's a lot more in this world, Mr. Holmes, than can be dreamt of in your philosophy."

"I see you're a fan of Shakespeare," Sherlock casually noted.

"I see you're still skeptical."

"Of course I am. There's got to be a logical explanation," the detective insisted, walking toward the angel to inspect it. This was just like the Baskerville case. It seemed like something supernatural was happening, but as always there had to be a more logical conclusion. There always was.

"Sherlock, maybe you shouldn't—"

"Nonsense, John," he replied dismissively, pulling out a magnifying glass and beginning to examine the outstretched hands of the angel. And then a strange, distant wheezing sound caught all their attention.

River grinned, "Well it's about time," she said, turning to face the materializing Tardis.

"About time for what? What's that noise?" John asked, following River's gaze to the blue box that was beginning to appear out of thin air.

"Whoever's phone that is, could you turn it off? I'm trying to work," Sherlock demanded irritably, turning to glare at them both. He only got a glimpse of the blue police box and only a moment to appear astonished, however, before he vanished.

"River!" the Doctor cried happily as he stepped out of the Tardis to greet her, followed along by Amy and Rory as usual.

"Hello, sweetie! I'm so pleased you could make it," she said, flashing him a wide grin.

"Who's this?" the Doctor asked, looking from River to John. "Oh, this is John Watson."

"John Watson. _The _John Watson?" the Doctor exclaimed excitedly. He looked to River, smiling broadly like a young boy who had just met his idol and jabbed a thumb over in the army doctor's direction. "_The _John Watson, how exciting!" he whispered.

"You've heard of me?" John asked, looking surprised. Sure, he had a blog and tons of people read it and told him that they loved it but normally the one to receive this sort of reaction was Sherlock, not him.

"Of course I have! Bright minds like yours and Sherlock's—of course I've heard of you! Love the blog, by the way," the Doctor said, flashing a childishly delighted smile. "The Aluminum Crutch was one of my favorites!"

"Doctor, River," Amy called, interrupting the introductions and the Doctor's praising. "What's an angel doing there?"

"What? River, you never mentioned angels," the Doctor said as he turned to follow the Ponds' gaze.

"I'm sorry, dear, I didn't know angels were involved until I came here and saw this pair snooping around. All I knew was that something strange was going on," River explained. "Speaking of Sherlock and John…"

"Where'd Sherlock go?" John asked, posing the very question River had begun to wonder. Turning back to where Sherlock and the angel had been, John's worried frown deepened as he spotted the angel but no detective.

"Oh no," River said, voice full of dread. "I'm so sorry, John."

"What do you mean?" the doctor asked fearfully, although he was already sure of what she was going to say and it wasn't anything good.

"I'm sorry, John, but Sherlock's gone."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: So since I got a pretty good response for the first chapter, I decided to continue writing this! I hope you continue to enjoy it and leave lovely reviews, too!****  
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"No, he can't be gone. There's—there's a way to get him back, right? There has to be," John half-asked, half-insisted, desperately looking from River to the Doctor for confirmation. But neither said anything. "_Please _tell me there's a way to get him back," he pleaded.

River glanced quickly to the Doctor and then averted her eyes from the both of them, guilt heavily plaguing her features. The Doctor averted his eyes downward warily, a frown on his face as he listened to the desperation in the army doctor's voice and dearly wished he could give the blogger a better answer. Finally, he glanced up at John and, looking none-too-confident, he answered, "Maybe. But I can't make any promises."

"Doesn't matter," John replied more strongly with the shake of his head. "I'll do whatever it takes," he added sternly.

"I wouldn't expect any less of you, John," the Doctor said with a small smile.

"Sorry to interrupt this lovely moment, but would you mind hurrying it up a bit? Staring at a creepy statue that's not a statue for this long of a time period is a bit harder than one would think," Rory piped up from near the Tardis with Amy. Seeing as the Doctor, River, and John had all diverted their attention from the angel, the task of keeping an eye trained on the creature had fallen upon the Ponds.

"Oh, sorry, Rory," the Doctor said apologetically.

"Perhaps we should adjourn to the Tardis," River advised. "It's safer there."

"Sorry, the what?" John asked, brow raised in confusion. Right now he was beginning to feel more lost than he sometimes did trying to keep up with Sherlock's deductions.

"The Tardis. It stands for—" the Doctor began to explain, but Amy cut him off.

"Never mind what it stands for, come on," she said, pulling at the Doctor's sleeve and backing up toward the Tardis, eyes still focused on the angel.

"No, wait, let me see if I can use the sonic screwdriver to get a reading from the angel. Given that Sherlock was sent back only moments ago, the time energy may be strong enough for there to still be a trail that points back as to _when _Sherlock was sent and where. Or at the very least, it'll narrow things down a bit for us," the Doctor explained, pulling away from the ginger's grip and hurrying over to the angel.

"Well get a move on, then. You know I really don't like these things," Amy said, giving him a small push as he scurried away. She didn't really know why, but out of all the scary and horrible things that she had faced in her travels with the Doctor, the angels scared her most of all. The sooner they got away from those creatures, the better.

"Patience, Pond," the Doctor instructed as he whipped his trusty screwdriver out of his pocket.

"Wait, you mean you've seen these things before?" John asked, interrupting the conversation between Doctor and companion. "And are you Scottish?" he added as an afterthought, having only just noticed Amy's quite prevalent accent.

"Yes and yes," Amy answered tersely. "That's not a problem for you, my being Scottish, is it?"

Quickly the blogger shook his head. "No, of course not. Just curious was all." She definitely had the Scottish attitude, though. He wasn't all too sure how long he would be around these people, particularly Amy, but hopefully he would never get on her bad side. "It's actually rather endearing," he assured her before getting distracted by the strange, high-pitched whirring noise of the Doctor's sonic screwdriver. "What's he doing? How's that going to help Sherlock?" John wondered, watching both the Doctor and the statue of the angel carefully.

"That's his sonic screwdriver. He uses it on practically everything and for just about anything. It'll help him find that time energy trail he mentioned a moment ago that'll help to narrow down when and where Sherlock is," River explained patiently.

"Strange but brilliant," John admitted, sounding fascinated by the idea just like he had been by Sherlock's deductions in the past; he still was always blown away by a particularly astounding observation. He suspected he'd never get used to the way Sherlock's mind worked ten thousand miles per second.

"He's not actually a doctor, though, is he?" he asked a moment later, surveying the Doctor's strange tactics. "'The Doctor' is just a nickname, isn't it?"

"No, he's not an actual doctor," Rory answered slowly, "but how could you tell? You only just met him."

"When you hang around Sherlock Holmes for as long and as often as I have, he starts to rub off on you," John said. "Not to mention, I _am _an experienced doctor; I know the habits and characteristics of doctors and he doesn't show any of them," he further remarked.

"Oh, I like you," River said with a broad grin.

"Got it!" the Doctor eagerly declared at the same moment. "Well, something, at least," he amended. "Better than nothing," he said as he glanced back down at his screwdriver and studied it carefully for a moment. "Yes, here we go!" he muttered, walking back over to the group. "Good news, John! Our good friend Sherlock is somewhere in the 19th Century!"

"Well that narrows it down," Rory deadpanned.

"I have to agree, that's not exactly the most hopeful of conclusions," John said. "Anywhere in the 19th Century means that he could be anywhere in a time span of 100 years, each with 365 days to choose from. Isn't there any way to narrow that down to something a _tad _more reasonable?"

"You know Sherlock, John, he'll probably find a way to help us out and narrow it down a great deal by sending us some sort of message. He's clever, I'm sure he'll think of something. Don't lose hope yet, we've still got a chance to save the world's first consulting detective," the Doctor reassured John. "Now let's go, everyone, into the Tardis," he said, moving past them to open the Tardis door. River, Amy, and Rory all quickly shuffled inside as the Doctor held the door open and kept an eye on the angel by the side of the empty home and scene of the crime. "

John, however, paused outside the doors, not yet having seen the enormous space inside. "How are we all possibly going to fit in there?" he questioned, to which the Doctor smiled mirthfully, as if he knew a grand secret he couldn't quite yet tell, and simply answered, "Why don't you step inside and see?"

"Bloody Hell," John murmured as he stepped into the Tardis, the Doctor following closely after him and immediately shutting the door behind him. Rory, Amy, and River all shared looks of amusement as the ex-army doctor gazed around the grand and spacious console room of the Tardis; however, the Doctor looked most delighted of all. He always loved seeing the reactions of companions and everyone else who entered the Tardis for the first time.

To John's credit, he didn't even state the obvious, "It's bigger on the inside," although the Doctor would eat his fez if John wasn't at least thinking it.

"You definitely aren't from around here, are you?" John finally asked after several moments of gaping at his new surroundings.

With a laugh, the Doctor replied, "No, I am most definitely not."

**Nightime Somewhere in the Past**

A dizzy Sherlock Holmes staggered as he gained his footing in the dim light of his new surroundings. As he found his balance, the detective gazed around, finding his current location quite unfamiliar. And for a detective who knew every main street, alleyway, and back road of London, that was just a tad disconcerting.

But as if this strange location wasn't strange enough, Sherlock immediately noticed that the air was different, too. It was crisp and dry, very different from the cool, refreshing spring breeze from a moment ago, back when he was with John and that blonde woman, River Song. Speaking of the two of them, both they and even the strange stone angel were gone and nowhere to be seen in this dark alleyway that he now found himself in.

The darkness. That was another odd thing, as well. While it had still been light outside—nearly midday when he, John, and River had arrived at the empty home of the missing man—here it was approximately 5:30am going by the steadily brightening blue gray sky above and the quiet that was all around him. This city he was in—for it surely was a city, and he suspected it was still London going by the smells he could pick up even though it was oddly quiet—had not yet fully awoken. But even then, he would have thought it would be a bit more…bustling at 5:30am. Usually some people were already waking up and heading to their jobs at this time, but it didn't seem so here.

Taking a few steps down the shabby alleyway with uneven cobblestone pavement—wait, cobblestone? Sherlock's brow creased in confusion. Sure, there were still some cobblestoned streets in London, but none quite so uneven and bumpy as this one. It must be an older street, he figured; one not deemed important or frequently used enough to be worth fixing. Well, that was a tad bit helpful. He could already think of a handful of small, old roads in London that it could be. However that still didn't help much. He still had over a dozen theories and there was still something that didn't add up here. Something very strange…

"Hello there, love. You lost?" a coy feminine voice called from behind. Sherlock turned sharply around to see a rather disheveled and tired-looking woman in her late forties-Sherlock would guess age 47 to be exact-standing several feet away. Immediately he picked up on a handful of things about her such as the fact that her hair was a mess, indicating that she didn't care enough to fix it or was too tired to and that she had engaged in some sort of activity in which she had managed to rough it up. The stained, dirty, and somewhat raggedy dress she was wearing hung off her shoulders partially because it looked a tad big for her, partially because it was getting old, and partially because she was obviously letting it drape haphazardly like that on purpose in order to gain attention. She obviously wasn't doing it to keep herself warm; the breeze that was stirring up was even chilling him a bit.

The woman's make-up was heavily caked onto her face—another deliberate yet poorly executed attempt to allure him but had probably worked on much more desperate and lonely men the previous evening. However, the make-up was smudged in some spots, mostly around the lips. Clearly, she had been successful earlier. But seeing as she hadn't bothered to touch it up showed that she was either lazy or that it didn't matter at the moment. She must not be 'on duty' to put it politely.

Conclusion? She was obviously what polite society would have once called "a woman of the night." To put it less delicately, she was a prostitute. And one who looked like she belonged in the late 19th Century.

"Lost, yes. Just a bit. 'Fraid I had too much to drink and stumbled a bit of a ways away from where I started out. Mind refreshing my mind as to what day it is as well as where I am, exactly?" he asked, ruffling a hand through his hair, blinking several times as if to focus his vision, and adding in a stumble for good measure. Annie, however, quite clearly knew a drunk man from a sober one.

"You look like the cleanest, soberest drunk I ever saw, but sure. It's early morning of Saturday September 8th and you're on 29th Hanbury Street, Whitechapel District," the woman informed him. Well, she seemed a bit sharper than he thought being rightfully suspicious of his claim of being hung over.

"Whitechapel District?" Sherlock repeated curiously, the name sounding quite familiar, and not because he knew every street and district of London. "What year?" he asked, fearing what the answer might be.

"What year? Maybe you really are drunk, but you'd have to have drunk yourself into quite a stupor to forget the year and you certainly don't look like you did, but," the middle-aged woman shrugged. "Anyways, the year's 1888."

"1888," Sherlock muttered under his breath. _Oh_, 1888! Saturday, September 8th 1888, to be exact. "I think I'd best be going," Sherlock told her hastily, to which she raised an eyebrow in confusion.

"You sure you don't want to stick around, let me help you…sober up?" she offered with a suggestive wink.

"Definitely not," Sherlock answered quickly, shaking his head and heading down the street already.

"Well if you ever want to take me up on the offer some other time, I'll be right here, love. And if you don't see me around, just ask around for Annie. Annie Chapman," she called after him. "Perhaps I'll be seeing you and those lovely cheekbones of yours some time in the near future."

Cheekbones again, really? Why did they_ always_ bring up his cheekbones?

Sherlock gave no response as he turned the corner, quite ready to get away from this shabby little alleyway. Unfortunately, he didn't get far enough away quickly enough, as he had only made it about three streets away from Hanbury when he heard a cut-off scream from back in Annie's direction.

Every instinct told him to run, but since when did Sherlock Holmes ever willingly run away from trouble, let alone trouble involving one of the most infamous murder cases in history. Without another moment's hesitation, the detective was sprinting back down the way he had come to find a few others already on the scene and the grossly mutilated body of Annie Chapman lying on the ground in front of them.

"It's the Ripper, he's struck again!" a man cried from somewhere behind him.

Sherlock stared down at the body of Annie Chapman. Of course he had struck again. Jack the Ripper, the Whitechapel Murderer.

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**A/N: So, Sherlock is stuck in 1888! And props to anyone who realized Sherlock's apprehension about the day and the date before it was revealed that it had to do with the Jack the Ripper murders. Yes, Annie Chapman was an actual victim, the 4th of all the Whitechapel murders and the 2nd of what was called the "canonical 5" or the 5 women murdered who's deaths were most similar in cause of death and were most likely the victims of the man knows as the Ripper. There were 11 murders in total in Whitechapel, but several of them are believed to not actually have been the work of the Ripper because they weren't killed in quite the same way as Annie Chapman and others.**

**Yes, Hanbury Street is where Annie was killed and it was at 5:30am. Also, I picked her death for Sherlock to stumble upon because, as it just so happens as you'll learn in the next chapter, the last person that people reported Annie being with was a "dark haired man of shabby genteel." Sherlock isn't exactly of "shabby genteel" but perhaps to someone of the time looking at someone not of the time, he could be. Or he just matches the "dark haired man" profile because I wanted to include Sherlock in the history of this event. Ha ha.  
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**Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this chapter and please, let me know what you think about where in time I chose Sherlock to end up. Is it cliched? Has it been done? Also let me know what you think of Sherlock's behavior in this chapter. Is it spot on? A bit weak? Was the deduction bit alright? Writing his deductions are the hardest bit of writing Sherlock, most definitely.  
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**Please, I appreciate your feedback! **


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Sorry this took so long, everyone, I had midterms and tests and homework and life things that got in the way! But as a consolation, this chapter is a tad longer than the others. Enjoy!**

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"My God," a man breathed in horror, staring down at the body in the middle of the street. "Just like Nichols' murder…"

"Of course it's just like Nichols' murder; this is a serial killer you're dealing with. This is his method, his trademark," Sherlock rattled off impatiently. The people here were just as thick as those in the modern world. No wonder so little progress had been made. "Swollen face and the obtruding tongue there between the teeth—sign of suffocation. Slit across the neck—he started here, on the left, possibly with the intention of severing the bones of the neck. Afterward, he removed the organs—"

"Eh, just who do you think you are?" a young man demanded, and the others began to nod and agree that they wanted an answer.

"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective," he introduced himself, somewhat irritated by their prying and skepticism.

"Consulting?" one of the few women who had joined the crowd called out confusedly.

"Yes. Means I assist the Yard with cases when they're too stupid to figure them out themselves," Sherlock somewhat patiently explained.

"Are you a member of the Yard, then?" another man asked.

"No, but I can assure you—"

"Then we don't need to listen to you!" the young man who had first spoken up insisted.

"No, you don't, but do you want to keep asking stupid questions or would you rather try to solve this murder and put an end to 'Jack the Ripper?'" he asked, raising an expectant eyebrow at the crowd.

For a moment they were all silent, and then the young man who had spoken up begrudgingly nodded. "Alright, fine."

"There's a good boy!" Sherlock said mockingly, feigning a pleased grin. The young man scowled, but said nothing as Sherlock stepped past him and several others and kneeled down beside the body. As he reached out a hand out to begin to survey Annie Chapman's body, someone called out once again.

"You're not supposed to disturb the body. Detective Anderson gave the last guy who did that a hard time about it." Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the name. Yes, of course there was a Detective Anderson. He was the head of the Detective Department in Scotland Yard at the time of the Whitechapel murders. Hopefully he wasn't as dim-witted as the Anderson Sherlock knew.

"That's right," a third man added, "Unless you want to be spending the night in the Old Bailey under suspicion of murder, I'd stay away if I were you."

"Oh please, I'm not moving the body I'm just examining it," the detective answered, rolling his eyes. "Now if you wouldn't mind, I need silence. Complete and utter silence," he commanded, and to his surprise, not another word of objection was made. More likely because they were all so astonished by him, strange and rude Sherlock, striding onto the scene out of the blue and rattling off deductions and not because they actually respected his authority in any way.

"As I was saying, suffocation and blood loss were the cause of death; the other incisions were caused after death. The incision on the neck is deep and not very precise. Look at how jagged the cut is," he said, tracing a finger over the area. "What did the murderer use to do this? A sharp yet thin and narrow blade approximately eight to ten inches; something like you might even see used in a post-mortem, speaking of which, the murdered obviously had to have surgical and anatomical knowledge to be able to so quickly remove the organs, let alone remove them at all. Even the best of medical professionals in this day and age would've had to have had fifteen minutes to nearly an hour to do this sort of work. Whoever it is that did this is smart, he knew what he was doing and he did it quickly.

"As for the rest of the body, the murderer pulled out the intestines and laid them here on the shoulder, however he completely removed the pelvis, the uterus and its appendages, as well as a good portion of the bladder, approximately two thirds, and the upper region of the vagina. These bruises up here," he said, trailing back up to the face as the men circled around him gaped, "are particularly recent and heavy, while there are a few older ones up on the forehead," Sherlock observed, pointing to the area, "probably several days old. These newer bruises on the chin and jaw, however, indicate that the murderer, so-called 'Jack the Ripper,' probably held her by the chin quite roughly as he made the cut across the throat and—"

"Who the _Hell _are you and _what _do you think you're doing?" shouted an angry voice from behind, and Sherlock whipped around, still kneeling beside the corpse of Annie, to see a man who could only be Detective Anderson, looking extremely disgruntled, and a somewhat shorter man who looked back at Sherlock accusingly.

"What do you think I'm doing? I'm helping you solve your case," Sherlock replied rather obviously. "Oh, don't look so upset, I wasn't nearly done yet. There's still plenty here for you to figure out, too, if you're capable. The Anderson I know certainly isn't."

"Step away from the victim's body now, sir," Detective Anderson instructed, and Sherlock, while he did roll his eyes, obeyed.

"I told you, Detective, it's the man himself come back to admire his work and tamper with the scene," the man beside Anderson murmured, although it was loud enough that Sherlock heard.

"Really? You think it's me? You think _I'm_ Jack the Ripper?" Sherlock said, addressing the man, before bursting out into a fit of derisive laughter. "Oh, you couldn't possibly be more wrong," he told the man through his laughter.

"Don't lie, I saw you with the woman right before she was killed! And Miss Long over there," he said, pointing to a woman in the crowd who was in her early forties and currently holding onto the arm of a man in the crowd. At the mention of her name, her eyes grew anxiously wide and she gasped a bit, gripping the man's arm a bit tighter. "She said she heard you two talking."

"Did she?" Detective Anderson asked, turning his head to look to the so-called witness.

Miss Long looked a bit frightened and panicked, and given that they were all under the ridiculous notion that Sherlock had committed the murder, he supposed she had a right to be. "Well," she began slowly, "That is true, but…" The man beside her gave her an encourage pat on the arm and she reluctantly continued. "Well, I heard him say he was drunk and needed to know where he was at and what day it was. And…and what _year _it was," Long continued, frowning curiously at that last detail. "He doesn't look very drunk to me, though. Didn't look very drunk to Annie, either. She said he looked like the cleanest, soberest drunk she'd ever saw."

"Seen," Sherlock corrected.

"What?" Long asked, looking confused and taken aback.

"The correct wording is that she thought I looked like the cleanest, soberest drunk she'd ever seen, not saw," he explained, and the others turned to look at him. "Oh, come on, you can't really be that thick to believe _I _was the one to kill her!" He insisted at the suspicious stare they were all giving him. "If I ever did kill someone, I would never do it like this. Too much mess," he said with distaste, to which a couple women gasped in disgust, and Sherlock rolled his eyes yet again. "If you must know, I'm here visiting London and I only just arrived this evening. I was looking for a place to sleep for the night and got a bit lost. It's been a while since I've been here," he said, making up the tale on the spot.

"Got any proof?" the man beside Detective Anderson asked skeptically.

The consulting detective sighed. "No, but as is frequent in these days with the very poor lack of acceptable deduction tools, you'll simply have to do with my word and my word alone."

"Alright, well regardless of your alibi, you're going to have to come with me, mister…."

"Holmes. Sherlock Holmes."

"He said he was a detective, by the way, Detective Anderson," the young man who had given Sherlock a hard time earlier said.

"Detective? Do you have papers to prove it?" Anderson asked curiously.

"I don't have any papers, I don't work for any department, I'm what I call a consulting detective."

"Consulting detective?" Anderson repeated.

"Yes. The first and only one in the world. I help the police solve their cases when they need my assistance which is always because they're a hopeless bunch."

"I see…" Anderson said slowly. "Well, as soon as the rest of the men and the coroner get here and we're good to leave, you're coming with me, Mr. Holmes."

"Dandy," Sherlock deadpanned, rolling his eyes once more. "Can't wait."

**Present Day in the Tardis**

"So, how are we supposed to find Sherlock's message? How do we know he'll send it?" Amy asked as the Doctor began to move about the console of the Tardis, looking like he was preparing to take off somewhere.

"Good question. Doctor Watson?" the Doctor said, pausing to turn and look at the ginger, diverting the question to John who was still trying to get used to the whole "bigger on the inside" thing. And yes, just as he thought, John _had _been thinking it. In fact, he'd even said it when the Doctor had asked him if he was alright. After all, there had been people who had been completely overwhelmed by the Tardis and he hadn't been alright, so he had made a habit of checking.

When he had asked, of course John's answer was, "Just trying to get used to the whole 'bigger on the inside' thing." And naturally the Doctor had laughed like the giddy 12-year-old he really was at hearts and told the ex-army doctor that it was the most perfectly natural reaction in the world and that he was sure John would adjust quickly.

"Wait, you're asking me?" John asked at the Doctor's response to Amy. "How should I know?"

"You know Sherlock best, don't you?" the Doctor asked, to which John nodded slowly. "So by all means, if you just _think, _a few ideas will come to you."

"But Doctor, what if he doesn't know to send a message to us. He doesn't even know about you and all he learned from Doctor Song—"

"Call me River. There's three doctors in here, we wouldn't want to get confused," River interjected. At this realization, the Doctor grinned, finding the fact that there were three doctors on the Tardis at once an amusing prospect.

"Right," John replied, quickly getting back on track with what he was saying. "Anyways, the only thing Sherlock knew was that the angel could send a person back in time and that they would have to live out their lives there and while Sherlock is normally a _very good_ problem solver, I think this kind of stuff is _really_ out of his element."

"That's right, Doctor, Sherlock was sent back in time before realizing you or the Tardis were even there at the house. And he thought the Tardis was one of our ringtones," River said. "The whole reason he was near the angel was because he absolutely refused to believe it was possible that something like time travel and the weeping angels could exist."

"Oh," the Doctor said, frowning a bit. "Still, if he cares about you, John, which I think he does, then he'll try to get in contact with you, anyway."

"How?" John asked.

"A letter," the Doctor replied simply.

"He could ask someone to hold onto it until this year, this very day, and get someone to deliver it to you right after his disappearance. While he may not have believed time travel was possible, he will now that he's done it himself and I'm sure he'll quickly figure out just how to work it to his advantage, am I right?" River asked.

"Sounds like a soundproof plan to me," Amy said.

"Where and when is he going to send the letter, though?" Rory asked. "The perfect time would've been right after he got sent back by the angel and we arrived, but that didn't happen."

"Maybe he sent it to Baker Street," John thought, although he didn't sound very sure of the idea.

"It's worth a shot," Amy replied with a shrug. "What's the harm in checking?"

"None at all," the Doctor replied brightly, returning his focus to the Tardis console. "Off we go, then!"

"Hold on, what are you doing?" John asked, sounding a tad alarmed.

"I'm taking us to Baker Street."

"Oh, right," John said, feeling a tad foolish, and then he felt the floor shudder under his feet and a dizzy feeling come over him for a moment before everything seemed to settle again. "Are we there already?" John asked, glancing from one companion to the other and finally to the Doctor.

"Indeed we are," the Doctor happily announced, running over to open the door to the Tardis.

"Well come on, then, out of the way so we can all see this Baker Street," Amy called, trying to get the Doctor to move out of the doorway so she could step outside of the Tardis.

"No, wait a moment," the Doctor replied softly, not sounding too happy now.

"Doctor, is something wrong? Did we land in the wrong spot?" Rory asked, looking a tad worried.

"Just a moment, Rory," the Doctor replied impatiently, putting a hand out behind him to stop anyone from approaching. "Nobody let John near the door," he instructed before shutting it behind him and walking out.

John looked over at the Doctor's three companions, utterly bewildered. "What's with him?" he asked.

"I don't know," River answered with a frown. "But it must have something to do with your timeline and therefore you're not allowed to step out of the Tardis."

"Let me guess, if I do the universe will implode because of some time paradox of sorts?" the doctor asked somewhat sarcastically.

"Yes, that's it exactly," River answered quiet seriously, to which John raised an incredulous brow.

"Wait, seriously?"

"Yes, seriously," River said with a firm nod.

"I only got a glance of what was outside, but by the looks of it, it was a flat of some sort," Amy told John. "So we're probably in the right spot but in the wrong time," she reasoned.

"It sounded like something was wrong, though," Rory added. "Like…something bad had happened."

"Bad stuff happens to us all the time," John said. "I'm sure it's nothing…" he said, sounding none too sure of that statement and looking quite uneasy.

Amy took a step forward to comfort and reassure him, but before she could come close enough the door to the Tardis opened and the Doctor hurriedly stepped inside again.

"Well, that's certainly not where we want to be!" he said, sounding and looking cheerful on the outside, but everyone including John could tell there was something bothering him on the inside. He had clearly seen something haunting, but he wasn't saying anything about it for now. "Let me just adjust a few things here," he said, moving to the console again, "and tweak a couple things there," he muttered as the four other occupants of the Tardis looked to one another with concerned expressions. "And next time, no eating jammy dodgers near the console again, Rory, you got crumbs all over, no wonder we landed in the wrong spot," he said, brushing off the surface near a few red and blue buttons.

"Perhaps we shouldn't have agreed to have tea with Queen Elizabeth II, then," Rory shot back, and John silently watched the exchange with amazement.

"Hey, he wasn't the only one, mister," Amy scolded, giving the Doctor a mean Scottish glare, and John couldn't help but let out a small laugh in spite of himself.

"Alright, alright, I did, too," the Doctor consented, knowing better than to argue with the fiery Amy Pond. "Now, off we go then!" he declared jovially, and at the pull of a wacky-looking, squiggly lever, they were off again.

This time, after peeking outside for a moment, the Doctor seemed quite confident they were in the right moment in time now and directed the Ponds and John out of the Tardis.

They had landed right in the middle of the flat to John's surprise. The place was empty and Amy and Rory began to curiously look around until the sound of light footsteps coming up the stairs made them all pause.

"Maybe it's someone with the letter?" Rory guessed, but John shook his head, already knowing the footsteps quite well.

"Boys, would you try to keep it down, I'm trying to watch the telly," a woman's voice said before opening the door and freezing in the archway.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson," John greeted the woman casually.

Mrs. Hudson only sighed exasperatedly, much to the bewilderment of the Doctor, River, Amy, and Rory. "What is that thing and how on earth did you two get it up here?" Mrs. Hudson asked, looking at the Tardis.

"Um…" John began, not knowing how to answer the question.

"Who's this lot?" she asked, gesturing now to the four other occupants of the room. "Have you two managed to make some friends?" she wondered, looking pleased at the prospect. "Oh wait, that's the woman from earlier, isn't it? Awfully rude of you earlier, pushing through the door uninvited like that…"

"Sorry, it was an urgent matter," River answered.

"Mrs. Hudson, this is Amy, Rory, River you already know, and…"

"The Doctor, pleased to meet you," the Doctor said, taking it upon himself to introduce himself and greet her hastily in the manner he had when he had greeted Craig. Mrs. Hudson looked a tad overwhelmed by his forward manner, but politely smiled back at him nonetheless. The humans did tend to have that sort of reaction…which was odd, seeing as he thought a kiss on each cheek was a standard greeting for them. "Mrs. Hudson. You seem like a delightfully charming woman, but now's not quite the time to get to know each other. I'm afraid we've come here on a sort of mission," he explained. "Might anyone have stopped by with a letter?"

She looked confused by the question, but ultimately shook her head. "No, I'm afraid I haven't."

"Well, perhaps they're just running late or he got the time wrong," the Doctor said, looking back at John in a reassuring way. "I suppose we'll just have to wait a bit," he decided, plopping himself down on a nearby armchair.

"Shall I get some tea, then?" Mrs. Hudson offered, to which the Doctor laughed.

"Ha, I was exactly right. Wonderfully charming little old lady you are, Mrs. Hudson. Strange box in your flat, strange people in your flat, and as soon as they say they're staying—didn't even ask, just declared that they were—you offer to make tea."

Mrs. Hudson grinned, blushing a bit at the compliment. "Oh, you're a sweet young thing," she said with a laugh, "Is that a yes to the tea, then?"

"Absolutely!" the Doctor replied.

"Oh, lovely, I love having company!" she said cheerfully, heading down the stairs.

"Wait, why don't you let me help," Amy offered, following after her.

"I like her," the Doctor told John, pointing after Mrs. Hudson. "Nice lady. Know what? For once I don't think it'll be so bad waiting around like everyone else always does. Cup of tea, bit of friendly company…" he said pleasantly, spreading his arms out on the arms of the chair. "Can't be long now, anyway, can it?"

Rory, River, and John merely exchanged glances, the two companions knowing that while the Doctor was patient, he wasn't very good at waiting, and John simply anxious to see his best friend again and know he was safe.

* * *

**A/N: All the facts Sherlock stated about Annie Chapman's murder are true, just so you guys know. I did a lot of research on the subject and if you're interested in learning more, send me a PM and I'll send you the links I have. **

**Also, Detective Anderson was a real person and he actually was the head of the Detective Department of Scotland Yard. And Elizabeth (not sure if that's her first name) Long was a real person who knew Annie and claimed to have overheard Annie talking to someone shortly before she was killed.**

**I hope the deductions, the storyline, and all the characters were okay! Let me know if you think there were some issues or if you really loved this update, please! Reviews mean a lot to me and they keep me moving forward!**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **_Oh God, I'm so, so, so, so, so, so sorry for taking practically a month to get this chapter to you guys! There's just been a ton happening to me lately! I had midterms and a huge project due, a speech...and then Hurricane Sandy came up and I just didn't get anything done during the couple of days we were out of class for that (don't worry, I had absolutely no harm done to me, I'm in an area where the worst we faced were super power outages, downed wires, and fallen trees. I lost a tree in the backyard and a lot of shingles and that's it.) It didn't help that I had, for a little while, hit a road block with what to do with this story._

_But on the plus side, it's finally here and it's the longest chapter yet! It's nearly 1,000 words longer than the previous chapter!  
_

_Again, I'm really sorry for taking so long, everyone, but hopefully you enjoy this chapter! To be honest, I haven't looked it over very thoroughly at all because I wanted to get it out now, so let me know if you see any really egregious errors that need to be corrected._

_Also, just so you know, this story will most likely be over in a few chapters. Sad, I know. I'm sorry._

_But in the meantime, enjoy it while it's still going! Have fun reading chapter 4, because I certainly had fun writing it!_

* * *

Sherlock sat in the small, stuffy office of Detective Anderson as the man and a colleague of his conversed just outside the door. The consulting detective could see the pair of them outside the window of the office, intently discussing something in hushed words. Of course, being able to read their body language and hear a bit of what they were saying, Sherlock understood a great deal of the conversation and inferred the rest.

But even though he could hear them and knew what they were talking about, he was growing antsy. All he wanted to do was go back to the crime scene and then go to the morgue and further inspect the body of Annie Chapman. The only thing that was really keeping him under control at the moment was the strong smell of a pipe that was the very reason for the stuffiness of the room. It was perhaps the only thing he liked about Anderson so far: he smoked, and therefore Sherlock managed to get a whiff of that sweet, pungent smell.

It wasn't going to keep him still for much longer, however. As wonderful as the smell of tobacco was, Sherlock was beginning to grow impatient with the conversation the two men of Scotland Yard were having. They were going around in circles, talking about the crime scene, how suspicious Sherlock appeared, how he had tampered with the evidence, his rudeness (although as far as Sherlock saw it, it was honestly and not impoliteness), how it was suspicious he had tampered with the evidence…

The consulting detective found himself sorely missing John. If John had been with him, they'd both be sitting here impatiently waiting for the pair of idiots to wrap up their conversation and get a move on. He'd then be able to tell John how he could hear them through the rather large gap under the door, how they were doing such a poor job of keeping their voices hushed, how the way the place was designed made sounds reverberate off the walls, and how they were wasting their time worrying about who Sherlock was and what he was doing instead of allowing him to help solve this case.

Honestly, even Lestrade wasn't this difficult. Hell, maybe even the Anderson _he _knew wouldn't be this difficult!

Immediately he scratched that thought and berated himself for even thinking such a thing. No, of course the Anderson from his time was just as difficult. He was the most stupid, impossible man Sherlock had ever had the absolute, loathsome displeasure of meeting.

And he had, at one point when he was younger, believed that Mycroft was the most impossible person he had ever known.

He really did need John. But John was…well, John was probably still 124 years ahead of him, stuck with that odd woman with the out of control curly blonde hair. How was he supposed to get back to John anyway? That angel statue that had most certainly sent him here in the first place had been nowhere in the vicinity of Hanbury Street and, if his assumption was correct, still exactly where John was by the house of the kidnap victim.

Although he knew now that the man who had once occupied the house was, in fact, not kidnapped but probably displaced in time like him. Wherever he had gone, he wasn't coming back. After all, that woman, River Song, had mentioned that if the angel touched a person, they would be displaced in time and live out their life there until they died. The case would have to be declared unsolved and seemingly unsolved by Lestrade and the rest of Scotland Yard.

But if that man was gone, then that meant that Sherlock would be spending the rest of his life here, then. Living out his life from 1888, through the turn of the century, until whenever it was he finally died.

As interesting as it was getting to be right in the middle of the Jack the Ripper murders he had been fascinated with since childhood first hand, Sherlock didn't much like the prospect of being stuck in the past. So many of the tools he used to aid him in his investigations hadn't even been invented yet, science was, by comparison to his day, prehistoric, and…

No, he certainly did _not _miss John. Absolutely not.

No, he would be perfectly alright here. If he needed to, he would live out his life in this time if he could find no other solution. But there had to be a solution, right? If the statue of an angel could send him back in time, then there had to be something else that could perhaps send him back to where he came from. If time travel existed, the so-called "Weeping Angels" surely weren't the only ones who possessed the capability to do it.

"Mr. Holmes," a perturbed voice called, trying to get the man's attention, and Sherlock snapped back to reality only to realize that Anderson and his colleague were standing before him with their arms folded. They appeared to have been waiting for him to notice them and pay attention for a while now by the impatient expressions on both their faces.

"Yes?" he asked, folding on leg over the other, placing his hands on his lap, and leaning back into his chair.

"Your posture is abysmal," Anderson's colleague noted with a deep frown, and Anderson glanced at him as if to tell him that Sherlock's posture was not their main concern at the moment.

"Is it? Oh well," Sherlock replied casually, shrugging. The man's frown deepened and his thick, dark eyebrows furrowed in annoyance.

"Quiet, the both of you. Especially you, Mr. Holmes. There's more important things to discuss than bad posture," Anderson snapped.

"Of course there are. There's a murderer on the loose, you two just wasted at least fifteen minutes that you could've been using to let me help you figure out who it is, he's too busy worrying about how I don't care to sit upright—I'd say we've wasted enough time as it is, don't you?" the consulting detective asked, quirking an expectant brow up at them.

The pair of detectives somehow looked both confused and appalled at Sherlock's lack of respect, looking to each other and then glaring back indignantly at Sherlock.

"Oh, we just going to stand here then? Waste more time when there's another woman dead and a public demanding answers?"

Flabbergasted, Anderson spurred into action. "Mr. Holmes, I am quite aware of the situation, thank you very much! You are not the one who runs this place, I am, and I will do whatever I see fit in order to solve this case! I expect—" the detective shouted.

"Well if you're going to do that, we might as well say goodbye to ever finding the real Jack the Ripper. No wonder the case has gone unsolved for years," Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, nothing. Carry on," Sherlock insisted, waving a hand to direct Anderson to continue.

The man looked suspicious, but said nothing more on whatever Sherlock might've said. "As I was saying, in the meantime, I expect you to show me at least a bit of respect or else I will have you thrown in jail!"

The 21st century detective said nothing, but he did seem to narrow his eyes a bit in a show of silent defiance. Anderson stared long and hard at him, as if trying to understand him, before continuing.

"You know, Mr. Holmes, your behavior at the scene of the crime is rather suspicious. Two witnesses claim to have seen and heard you with the victim minutes before she was killed, you claimed to be drunk when speaking to Chapman however you appeared quite sober to her as well as everyone else at the scene, and then you approached the body and proceeded to examine it. Not to mention, there were several things that you pointed out that no one else in our department knew until after the medical examiner had inspected the body. How is it you know so much again, Mr. Holmes?"

"I already told you earlier," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes in exasperation. "Amazingly enough, detective, there just so happen to be other detectives beside yourself and your men at the Yard," Sherlock answered. "But unlike you, I not only see, but observe."

"You mean you're a detective, too?" asked the man standing beside Anderson, and while tempted to give a smart reply, Sherlock simply nodded.

"Well you're certainly not from the Yard, so where are you from?"

"Baskerville."

"Basker-what?" Anderson's partner asked.

"Baskerville," the consulting detective answered. "Small town out in the middle of nowhere. You've probably never heard of it."

"Baskerville…" Anderson said slowly, as if repeating the name a third time would help him to recall it. "No, definitely haven't heard of it," he finally said, shaking his head.

"And you called yourself a…what was it? Consulting detective?"

Sherlock grinned. "Oh, good, someone was paying attention! Yes, a consulting detective. First and only one in the world."

"And what exactly _is _a consulting detective?" Anderson asked skeptically.

Sherlock tried not to roll his eyes again. "Means I help people like you when you're being too thick to notice valuable and frankly obvious pieces of evidence in order to solve the case."

"I told you to watch what you say, Mr. Holmes."

"No, you said that if I didn't show you some respect, you'd throw me in a cell. I wasn't showing disrespect at all. In fact, I'm being kind in regards to your intelligence. Trust me, I could say much worse."

"_Mr. Holmes_," Anderson said crossly in warning.

"Yes?" Sherlock answered patiently, and Anderson looked furious for a moment before taking a deep breath and calming himself down.

"Mr. Holmes," he said calmly, a slight edge to his voice. "Can you explain why you were seen speaking to the victim shortly before she was brutally killed?"

"I was lost. I haven't been in London in a while and I was looking for a place to stay."

"Why did you tell Annie Chapman that you were drunk when you obviously aren't?"

"I thought she might be more willing to help a drunk man find his way to a roof and a bed if she thought I was drunk," Sherlock said, thinking up the lie easily on the spot.

"I see…" Anderson said slowly, in the very kind of 'I see' tone that implied he didn't see anything besides a suspicious-looking man.

Sherlock sighed. "You can either keep questioning me for hours and come up with no evidence whatsoever to prove my guilt and further waste your time looking for the real murderer, or you can allow me to help you solve this case," he told Anderson, sick of wasting his time inside Anderson's office when they all could be out looking for evidence.

"I can't just let you help! Not only is it against regulations, but there's also the fact that half of the crowd back there surrounding the body thought you were the one responsible! They won't let us get anything done if we let you come around with us to solve the case." Anderson said.

"So what?" Sherlock demanded. "Public opinion doesn't matter; it's finding our so-called Jack the Ripper and locking him up that matters."

"And what if it's _you _who's the Ripper?" Anderson's partner asked.

"Oh for Heaven's sake, not this again!" Sherlock groaned, throwing his head back.

"We all have every right to be suspicious!" the man shot back.

"And I'm telling you that the notion that I'm responsible is absolutely ridiculous. I wasn't even in London at the time of the first murders, only for this one! If all the murders share a similar M.O. and I was out of town for the first few, how could I have committed those, let alone this one? And where would I have hidden the murder weapon and gotten rid of the blood spatter that surely would've gotten onto my clothes if I did commit the crime? There wasn't possibly enough time for me to do all that," he insisted.

"Alright, maybe it is a little unlikely…" the man said slowly, obviously reluctant to admit Sherlock was right.

"A little? Try impossible," Sherlock said.

"Alright, fine, maybe it's not possible for you to have committed the crime," Anderson conceded. "But I'm still reluctant to let you help us in any way."

"If you don't let me help, I'll simply conduct my own investigation."

"And then I'll simply arrest you."

"And then we'll be right back where we started, won't we?"

Anderson sighed. "If I allow you to help, then it'll seem like I'm just letting anyone join us on the hunt of Jack the Ripper."

"Then make sure everyone knows that that's _not _what's happening," Sherlock supplied. "Given how divided your department is at the moment, you could use my help and you know it, Detective Anderson." Anderson looked a little surprised that Sherlock knew about that, and the consulting detective quickly answered, "I've been keeping up with London news thanks to a friend and it was easy to tell when you walked me through the building that things weren't going like you wanted. Not everyone's willing to listen to you.

"Like I said, Anderson, you need all the help you can get, and you'll most certainly want mine."

"Alright, Mr. Holmes, say I do allow you to help…"

"Then you'll be thanking me later."

"Detective Anderson, this is a bad idea," Anderson's fellow detective interjected, but Anderson waved away his comment off.

"Alright, fine. I'll allow you to help with the case," he conceded at last, and Sherlock's grin became a mile wide.

"Yes! About time you came to your senses."

"But I'll be keeping a close eye on you, Mr. Holmes. A _very _close eye."

**Back in 221B Baker Street**

"Alright, I think it was Miss Scarlet—" Rory began, glancing down at the board and at the little figure that represented Amy's piece and currently situated in the kitchen.

Without warning, a fist slammed down onto the board game and Miss Scarlet went flying from the kitchen and all the way over to the library while John's and Rory's pieces, both in the lounge, unexpectedly found themselves flung into the billiard room. The Doctor's piece had flown into the cellar to join River's piece. Mrs. Hudson's—which had not been removed from the board although she had quit the game earlier to make another kettle of tea and to watch her soap—leaped into the air and then bounced from the hall over to the study.

"I can't take this waiting anymore!" the Doctor shouted dramatically, rising from his spot on the floor and beginning to pace by the fire.

John tried not to be reminded of a similarly tall, lanky figure with his hands together and touching his chin, pacing and deep in thought.

"Inside voices, you five!" Mrs. Hudson cried from downstairs. "I'm trying to watch the telly!"

The Doctor paid no mind to Mrs. Hudson, and instead abruptly quit his pacing and turned to the four remaining people in the room. "How is it you humans do it? The natural progression of time is so…boring! And slow! It's maddening!" he said loudly, gesticulating wildly. His hands were flying out in front of him, by his head, as if to indicate how it was near imploding.

"It's not that bad, honestly, Doctor," Amy reasoned. "You're ridiculous," she said, rolling her eyes at his over dramatic behavior.

"She's right. You need to learn to be more patient," River added.

"Not that bad? Not that bad! We've been sitting here playing Cluedo for the past two hours and have been waiting around for the past six and nothing has happened! It's not that I'm not patient, it's just that we've been sitting here for hours doing nothing but—but playing a board game!"

"Why is it that absolutely no one likes Cluedo?" John muttered in exasperation. First Sherlock had protested the game and even gone so far as to nail it to the wall in frustration, now the Doctor had knocked over the pieces and grown impatient with the game and with waiting.

"Well, I have to admit, I'm starting to think maybe Sherlock isn't going to be sending us any letters," Rory said, acting as the calm voice of reason and skepticism.

John frowned. "Maybe he isn't. Maybe there's another way to find out where in time he is…" he said, thinking aloud quietly, but the Doctor seemed to find something in the idea and pointed to him with an approving look and a gleam in his eye that meant a thought was beginning to grow in his head.

"I think you may be right, John. Tell me, Sherlock's not very modest, is he?"

The army doctor let out a loud laugh. "Modest? No, not by a very, very long shot."

"And he absolutely loves to show off, correct?" the Doctor continued.

"Showing off is just about all he does," John answered.

"Then I wonder…" the Doctor began slowly, and then looked about the room as if searching for something. "John, mind letting me use your laptop?" he asked.

"Laptop? What do you need his laptop for?" Amy asked.

"Because, if Sherlock is not at all modest and lives in order to show off his intelligence and his skill to others, then we might be able to find his name somewhere in history that it shouldn't be," the Doctor informed her and the rest of the group. "Argh, why didn't I think of it before?" he asked, more to himself than anyone else in the room. He really wanted to smack himself for being so stupid.

"Oh, honey, that's brilliant! Why _did _it take so long to think of this?" River said, grinning at her lover's brilliance but frowning at the fact that it had taken so long for anyone to come up with such an idea.

"Knowing Sherlock as well as I know him, I should've thought of it sooner," John said. "If Sherlock found himself in the past, I'm sure he wouldn't shy away from telling everyone who he is and making his presence in that time period shown, especially if he happens to find a case," he reasoned.

"So, John. Laptop. Give it here," the Doctor instructed, and John hurried off to his room to fetch it.

He returned a minute later, carrying his laptop out in front of him. "I have to keep it locked up and hidden somewhere where Sherlock can't find it. He's always taking it without permission and hacking into it."

"He hacks into it?" Amy asked, raising a curious eyebrow.

"He guesses the password within the first try," John answered with a frown, somewhat ashamed that he never managed to keep Sherlock away from accessing his laptop.

"You know, I think they've got laptops with fingerprint technology that makes you use your fingerprint to gain access to your laptop," Rory told John, "If you bought one of those, you could easily keep him out."

"Sounds lovely. If I had the money, I would," he said. "Maybe if I save up for it, it can be a Christmas gift to myself," he added after a moment of thought. It was a nice idea if he could swing it.

"There you go," Amy said cheerfully.

"Speaking of passwords, I'm going to need yours, John," the Doctor called from where he had sat himself down at the table with John's laptop.

"Oh, right," John said, and the rest of the group followed him over to where the Doctor had seated himself. He leaned over the Doctor's shoulder and quickly typed in the password before stepping back as the desktop loaded.

"Amy, that website you and Rory use to search things, what is it again?" the Doctor asked as he clicked on the internet icon on the screen.

"Google," Amy answered, and the Doctor quickly typed it in and then put in the name 'Sherlock Holmes' in the search bar. The results that came up on the first several pages, however, were all from recent news—Sherlock's Science of Deduction site, John's blog, and online news articles on the cases he had solved. There was nothing dating back to anywhere in the 20th century from what any of them could see.

It wasn't until page 9 that they got their first actual hit.

"' ?'" Rory asked, a mix of curiosity and confusion on his face that mirrored that of the others.

The Doctor clicked the link, only for them all to be disappointed by the screen that loaded.

"We have to pay to see the rest," Rory stated with a sigh of annoyance.

"No worries," the Doctor said, completely undeterred by the result. John then watched in amazement as the bow tie wearing alien began to rapidly type in a lengthy code of some sort, small black windows of text and code popping up and out of sight.

"What's he doing?" John asked in a slight bit of alarm, turning to look at River, Amy, and Rory.

"He's hacking into the system so that we don't have to pay to see the results. We'll be able to find any and all information we need to find," River answered calmly. "Don't worry, your laptop will be fine."

"If not a little bit fancier," Rory said with a small grin. "He did something similar with both of our phones shortly after we started traveling with him so that we could get internet access and make phone calls," he explained to John.

"Amy just couldn't live without her _Twitter,_" the Doctor said, his face turning sour.

"Hey, I have a life apart from you, you know," she shot back defensively.

"I'm taking you traveling across all of space and time and you still _have _to have it," the Doctor complained.

"And I can't have both?"

"Hey, stop it," Rory interjected, put a hand on both his wife's and the Doctor's shoulders to non-verbally inform them that they should both shut up.

Nothing more was said about it; instead, the Doctor pulled out his sonic screwdriver, aimed it at the screen, and a moment later stuffed it away in his inner coat pocket. "Alright, 'Ancestry,com', now let's see what you've got for us," he announced, and then pulled up the minimized tab to see what results were available to them now.

The first bit of information that caught their eyes, however, had them all gawking.

'_Mystery detective from the countryside to assist in solving Ripper case'_ was the first available piece of information available to them, and the Doctor turned to look at them with wide eyes.

"Wait…Ripper case…Do they mean the Jack the Ripper case?" Rory asked.

"I don't know about any other Ripper cases, do you?" Amy answered.

"Isn't the Jack the Ripper case unsolved?" River asked, turning to the Doctor for an answer.

"It is, and that's why we need to go get Sherlock and fast. He wasn't meant to be in that time period and he can't be allowed to do something as big as solve that case. If he solves it, he'll be a household name from criminal investigators to law enforcement to history and mystery enthusiasts, to the general population. That can't happen. And who knows what else he might do like create new criminal investigation techniques or technology that's meant to be created by someone else. Do you have any idea how it would affect today?"

Rory, Amy, and John looked at him uncertainly.

"It would certainly change a few things," River noted, although she seemed much more relaxed than the Doctor and much more aware than the other three.

"Yes, exactly. Anyways, now that we know where he is, we should get to him immediately," the Doctor said, heading over to the doors of the Tardis. "Come on, then!" he said, gesturing for them all to come follow him after he turned to see them all still standing there doing nothing.

As John entered the Tardis, he couldn't help but mention aloud, "Sherlock's not going to like this…We'll probably have to use force to drag him away from this one."

* * *

**A/N:** _Poor John, seems nobody likes Cluedo, not even the Doctor! Hope you liked that little reference to Cluedo as well as the other ones, for example the one to Baskerville and the Twitter reference._

_Anyways, there you have it, and I hope you enjoyed it! Please send me reviews to let me know how you liked it, alright, folks?_

_Thanks, and until next time, best wishes! And I swear it won't be so long next time, okay?_


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